


thought about it

by Areiton



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Smut, Getting Together, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, it's just sappy sex you guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-07-05 21:53:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15872457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Areiton/pseuds/Areiton
Summary: He thought about it.





	thought about it

He thought about it.

Of course he thought about it, they spent almost two years dancing around each other, and there was very little else to think about trapped in that hellhole train station, and Peter Hale is beautiful in a way that almost defies logic.

So he’d thought about it.

The thing is--Peter is all sharp edges. He’s fangs and claws and razor sharp wit, all of them wielded with a brutal skill to inflict the most damage, and even though Stiles saw glimpses of something...softer. Something gentle.

Even though he had caught Peter sleeping, his face soft and open and vulnerable.

He’d expected the sharp skill and leashed brutality.

He thought about it, and he knew enough about himself, about his intense reactions to beautiful men threatening him, to know that worked for him.

But then they fall into bed together, on a night when Stiles was studying in Peter’s living room. Peter liked the company and always cooked for Stiles, and with his dad working the night shift, being here made things less lonely.

It happens because he falls asleep in the middle of reading one of Peter’s books, working his way through what seems like an endless amount of lore.

It’s on his tablet, all of it, Peter digitized and sent him the library as soon as he realized Stiles was the one who did the research and solved problems. But he prefers being here, in Peter’s space, where the werewolf can answer questions and rub his feet and give him tea.

It happens because Peter carries him to bed, and crawls in behind him, something they’ve done a thousand nights that Stiles fell asleep on the couch.

It happens because Stiles twists, and stares at him, at his wolf, pressed close but never taking, and _he’s thought about it._

He always thought it would be rough and demanding, fast and hard.

When he kisses Peter, and Peter makes a soft, wanting noise in his throat, one hand coming up to rest on his hip, soft, soft, soft--when Peter pulls back and murmurs, “Are you sure?” his voice deep and hungry, and Stiles nods, reels him back in for a kiss that refuses to be anything but a lazy slow exploration--he realizes he was wrong.

There is nothing rough in the way that Peter holds him, cradles his face in big hands, almost like Stiles is fragile, like when he gets to touch Stiles, it’s a gift, something precious and rare and wonderful.

There is nothing demanding about the way he kisses Stiles, his tongue begging against his lips, and shy as he licks into Stiles’ mouth, reverent as he kisses down Stiles long lean body. They’re supplicant and Stiles gasps, his fingers carding through Peter’s hair, body arched tight and hungry into the press of Peter’s lips.

There is nothing fast about the way Peter strips him, a slow reveal that would be frustrating but for the hungry noises Peter makes, the whispered praise pressed into newly revealed skin, the way his hands never stop _touching._ There is nothing _fast_ about the way Peter licks him open, slow and lazy, content little noises spilling from his throat as Stiles ruts against the sheets and comes with a bitten off curse. There is nothing _fast_ about the way he fingers him, after, slow, licking in around his finger, as Stiles slowly hardens beneath his touch.

There is nothing _hard_ about the way Peter slides into him, this gentle press that makes Stiles choke, makes tears burn in his eyes as Peter just _slowly_ pushes in, filling up all the empty places he didn’t think he had.

It feels--all of it feels--like worship. The way that Peter move in him, the way he blankets him, and mouths at his skin. The quiet praise and soft promises, pressed into his skin as his hips roll and Stiles whimpers and pleads, and they come, seconds apart, Peter’s hips stuttering through the clench of Stiles’ body--all of it feels like an ancient hymn to a pagan god, and Stiles drifts to sleep as Peter nuzzles him, sweet and soft, in the afterglow.

His last thought is, I never thought about this.


End file.
